Mad World
by Gurubiness
Summary: A look into Shishiwakamaru's past. Ties in, kind of, with Affaire de Ceour, also by yours truly. Rated for concept.


_**If anyone wants this MP3 (I have two; one by Gary Jules, and the original by Tears for Fears. This is done more Gary Jules style), just e-mail me. Enjoy!**_

_All around me are familiar faces_

_Worn out places, worn out faces_

_Bright and early for their daily races_

_Going nowhere, going nowhere_

_And their tears are filling up their glasses_

_No expression, no expression_

_Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow_

_No tomorrow, no tomorrow_

_And I find it kind of funny_

_I find it kind of sad_

_The dreams in which I'm dying_

_Are the best I've ever had_

_I find it hard to tell you_

_'Cause I find it hard to take_

_When people run in circles_

_It's a very, very_

_Mad World_

_Children waiting for the day they feel good_

_Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday_

_Made to feel the way that every child should_

_Sit and listen, sit and listen_

_Went to school and I was very nervous_

_No one knew me, no one knew me_

_Hello teacher tell me what's my lesson_

_Look right through me, look right through me_

_And I find it kind of funny_

_I find it kind of sad_

_The dreams in which I'm dying _

_Are the best I've ever had_

_I find it hard to tell you_

'_Cause I find it hard to take_

_When people run in circles_

_It's a very, very_

_Mad World_

_Enlarging your world_

_Mad World_

**- "Mad World" by Tears for Fears, covered by Gary Jules**

A crowd bustled through the busy streets of Makai. Alone, there sat a young boy, swinging on a crudely made tree-swing off the side of the road. His posture was limp and indifferent, and his hands held the ropes loosely; his feet swung mindlessly below him, and the rocking of his tree-swing was slow in motion. He was cast in a great shadow from the looming tree, giving him a mysterious air. His lavender-blue bangs fell far into his face, concealing it, for the most part, in shadow. His amethyst eyes bore pensively into the crowd, watching everyone (and no one in particular) tentatively. The puffed-out sleeves hung in rumpled folds round his elbows. His sky blue battle-bloomers wrinkled and unwrinkled in a pattern due to his swinging. He was very unnoticed by the crowds.

Yes, he indeed knew most of them. He recognized almost every face in those crowds, save a few; it was his duty as a samurai to familiar himself with mainly everybody. He had to know them to protect them, which was also to be his duty once he came of age. He wasn't of age yet, seeing as he still held his boyhood title of "Shishiwakamaru," which to him was a degrading name: "Deaths young and 'round." Though it fit him nearly perfectly (He resented the fact so), he still said it to be degrading, for it was, and the meaning of his name definitely tarnished his reputation; people knew him as a boy who was grim, gloomy, and blood-thirsty, even homicidal, though that one was a lie; he was indeed grim, gloomy, and enjoyed fighting maybe a bit too enthusiastically, and could even be rather malicious, but he wouldn't mind lying to people to make himself seem better and more admirable and honourable than he was.

Every day was exactly the same. The people would wake up, bright, happy, very early so they could get ready, and rush out the door to beat all the other's to the doughnut stand, or to work, or to wherever else they could be going. And the Shinobi woke early to hustle out of camp, uphold laws, or assassinate people, or train, or whatever else they could be doing. They'd try to beat each other to the next murder victim with the highest bounty on his head, or to see who could finish their training first to get out and finish their slaughter faster. Samurai awoke and set out to protect people, or to train; they'd try to get to the most needy and vulnerable people first, or wake earlier to finish their training session quicker than everyone else. It was all a race to see who could do it faster, who could beat whom, and how long it would take to finish their day, and how much free-time they'd have left after they won the never-ending race. Everyday… every single day. All the days were the same. Where did it lead them? Death from over-exertion, that's where. The races didn't have a finish line or a stopping point—they just kept going and going forever, not really getting the runner anywhere but the grave, which was absolutely nowhere, really. And he realized this more than anything. His eyes showed his longing for something out of the daily, fast round-about routine.

Men sat in pubs and cried into their mugs, drinking their sorrows away. Half full with beer, and half full with tears, giving the drinks a salty taste. He cried into his sleeves, or into the bowl of sake he was supposed to balance atop his head and then drink when he'd wake up early to win the daily race of occupation, breathing in the powerful fumes so thickly that his head spun. He drained the basin once, and then filled it half up with his tears; funny thing was, it only took him about an hour or less—after that, he ran just about dry. His foot was a little browned from kicking up the dirt under the tree swing. His head was lowered, hands still hanging loosely to the ropes; through half-closed, emotionless and empty eyes, with a slightly furrowed brow, he stared at the crowd longer, his dead-pan face still concealed in the shadows of his bangs and the shadow of the tree; his mouth was slack.

He thought more of the basin of sake. At his father's wedding, he had to drink heavily from the bowl, tipping it upwards so that it hid his entire head. He gulped a tiny bit down, an insufficient amount, but the potent scent consumed him, and he dropped the bowl onto the table, cracking it into a million pieces and sending sake everywhere; it was accidentally on purpose. The boy wanted to go back home, find another bowl, and drink so deeply from that bowl that it would feel like he had gotten a concussion. But of course he couldn't do that. He couldn't ever go back there. But, nonetheless, he still wanted to drain the bowl and then try to fill it up with his sorrows and pains, emptying them into the bowl until there was no more to empty.

He watched the man with the rickshaw rush by with a couple in the carriage behind him. Everyday, he ran past, someone in the back. It was still the same day. If every day was the same, then you wouldn't actually change days. It would be "to-day" forever, no "yesterday," no "to-morrow," or anything. Just "to-day." It was all so utterly recurring… He couldn't look forward to much in the future. If every day was the same, then there'd never be a to-morrow. Ever. No to-morrow 'tall. And that was the painful part.

He had to laugh in spite of it all, in spite of himself. And he did. He gave a quiet little chuckle, and swung a bit more in the swing. His lips curved up into a smile, distinguishing the lines around his mouth and eyes; dimples formed in his cheeks and on his chin. But the dimples faded as the smile lessened. His tapered half-smile, thrown in the shadows of both the looming tree and his leaning head, gave him a very sad, melancholy look. And he was sad. But he smiled. His smile lessened a little bit more as he watched all the people pass him by. He saw them laughing, saw them with their families. He found it sad. Not in a wholly selfish way; partially because they had what he never had, could never have, and partially because he had what they didn't, and couldn't. What that meant was his days weren't the same anymore. The day of his father's wedding was very different. The day he was 'banned' from his village was different. He figured he'd be banned anyway. So he just got it over with; he just up and left. It was kind of funny that they could only do those things, that everything was the same, that they had nothing to look forward to (though he didn't really think he did either, but the knowledge that he came from a samurai village and honourable clan made him feel like he did), and it was funny to watch them walk by, all flustered and rushed; it was funny to look at them—they were funny-looking. But it was kind of sad for all the same reasons…

It was like a dream to him, to be able to sit here and just simply _watch_ them all. Yeah, sure, he'd watched everyone like this before, but those times were nothing like this. Those times he was focusing on protecting them. These times he was analyzing them. It wasn't a good dream. His dreams were horrible. Horrible, horrible nightmares, where his worst, deepest, darkest fears would rear their ugly heads from the Hellish plane that was his subconscious. He had had dreams that were the basic kind, where you'd fall and keep falling; those were dreams. The dreams where you couldn't move, were stuck in the dark, could hear voices whispering in your ears

_Slash it, murder it, slaughter it, PROTECT IT._

and felt a prickling, tingling sensation—a prickling, tingling, painful sensation—pervading your entire body, where all of your worst fears and secrets came to life, took shape, and warped to-gether into one huge mess of fright, were the kind he had; those were nightmares. But he had many (uncountable) dreams where he would simply die. People say you couldn't die in your dreams. Well, they're wrong. But maybe it's because he already felt dead; at least on the inside.

_You can't hurt me. I'm already dead._

The dreams where he died were sometimes his favourites. He had too many nightmares. The dreams where he fell usually lead to them. Really, to sum it up, the dreams in which he died or was dying were the best he'd ever had, his favourites. How masochistic.

He hadn't been able to do it. The night of his father's wedding, after he'd dropped the sake basin, he hadn't slept much. He slept maybe for an hour or two; he had had a nightmare. He was mulling everything over. Just as he was doing now. He couldn't tell them his plans. He was going to write a note before he left… He was… But the thought of being banished, of never becoming a samurai of his own village, of never being a respectable figure in his clan, of never even loosing his childhood name, just ate at him; all because he was banishing himself and running away before they could banish him. Telling his father he was running away, even in a note, would symbolize all of that… And he couldn't take it. It was too hard.

He watched the people ran past him.

_Do the hustle._

If they weren't going anywhere, and every day was the same, then technically they were running in a virtual circle, were they not? He thought so. How pathetic. To think he was almost like them once… It's such a crazy world. Very, very much so.

About three days had actually passed since his father's wedding… And those three days were spent entirely on his own. Entirely alone. Homeless. He hadn't eaten a full meal in four days; in his village, there were three to four full meals a day for everyone, and he always took part in that because food was necessary for strength. He was privileged because he was damned, in his mind. He saw it as if because he was sad, damned to run in a continuous cycle for the rest of eternity, that he is granted gifts and privileges for being conventional. And he always thought it twisted.

Before he started training, things were much better. When he could still possess the innocence and youth of true childhood. When his mother was still there and his father wasn't jumping from woman to woman in an indecisive frenzy. The best day of his life would be his fifth birthday. His mother had thrown a huge party for him. And he loved it. Everything was perfect; it was like a fairytale, like a luxurious dream! He now knew why it was so great. The very next day, he began his training as a samurai, and was hardly ever home. The very next day, his life became a sort of Hell, he fancied; like a demonic dreamscape. And the day after that, it became utterly real to him, this Hell, when he found his very own mother's lifeless body on the kitchen floor.

_Harikiri, harikiri, harikiri…_

For Christ's sake, the sword was still in her stomach when he found her. The graphic details won't be listed, but the incident was indeed gruesome.

Now he waited. In his dreams that he'd have the past three days, he saw images. Now he waited for an angel, a saviour, to come to him, bear him up her arms, and sweep him away. Or something like that.

He was simply waiting for a day when all of his problems went away; when everything would suddenly be all right, and everything that happened in the past wouldn't even matter anymore. When he could be happy—truly happy!—and just be so. And feel good. But he had this gut feeling that the day was a long way away…

_Blood and tears, Shishiwakamaru: They were here first._

_Mm, what d'ya say?_

His memory played hide and seek with him. But not this day. A little boy—a little him—sat in the dojo, listening patiently to his sensei. Eyes full of sorrowful discomfort and melancholy guilt. Undeniable. A smile spread across his sensei's—his father's—face when the boy nodded, understanding. 'No speaking out of turn, no back-talk, no attitude. Listen, do what you're told, speak only when spoken to. Know when you're wanted, leave when asked, follow orders, and forget your pride. Mind your own business, respect and listen silently. Hit back when you're hit, and attack when attacked. Every child gets the same orders, you're not different. Not special. Just sit quietly, and listen to what you're told to do; I'm sure we'll have no problems.'

He had come to believe that every child in his village who underwent training to be a samurai—just like their dads—felt the same as he did. Sorrowful, melancholy, uncomfortable, sad, guilty. He had done nothing to feel guilty about. It was the kind of pointless guilt one gets after a loved one dies; just without the "I should've's" and "if's." It was as if all of these feelings were a law for children training to be a samurai. All they could do was sit and listen to what their fathers and other men in the village told them. All they could do was follow orders, do what they're told to do, and simply obey. From the time they were four, they were taught to obey, taught too sit patiently and quietly and listen to everything that was said to them. The village men made them this way… It was the conventional thing to do for the village boys. Sit… and listen. And every child was made to feel the sadness that accompanied that thing they did. He often wondered if it was intentional…

He nearly fell out of swing. Have memories ever just come back at you, hitting you in the head like a bag of bricks? So vivid that you can actually hear the eerie type of echo in your head, ringing in your ears? When you can hear what people said… like they just said it to you three seconds ago? That's what happened to him.

_First day of school, isn't it? And there were five children. And they were all dressed nearly the same. And they all had had hair past their ears. He remembered he had nearly pissed in his trousers because he had been so nervous and scared. He had trained with his dad alone for about two months before… And then, suddenly, he had his uncle, a neighbour, his father, and four other different kids to train with. And he had not been happy about it. He had been scared, because he had never played with any of the kids before. They had all been older than him, too. Very intimidating. Three of the kids looked at him funny. The kind of 'Hey-look-at-that-little-munchkin!' kind of look. And it was not nice. The other boy had only been a few years older than him, by the look of it, and seemed to be just as nervous as he was; he was sitting quietly, all by himself, and looking at the wall with tears in his eyes. Shishiwakamaru had sat down at the other end of the room, and looked at his feet._

_He had wondered what was going to happen; and scared himself in the process. He had wondered why that boy was going to cry, and came up with crazy theories. 'This is so horrible, and he knows what's going to happen, and so he's crying. Maybe we're all going to die, or get hurt, and kill things, and be tortured and only fight for the rest of our lives…' He looked at the boy. The boy had tears in his eyes still, even more, and streams running down his cheeks. _

_**Ow, don't shove me!**_

_But at least the boy didn't have piss in his pants._

"_Hey, look at this! The baby wet his pants!"_

_He couldn't ignore it. He cried. His father, the main sensei, stood in the corner, watching. He had been glaring at his son. Wet pants, watery eyes, embarrassment soaked ego; Shishiwakamaru had made his way to his father. He looked up at him, faux determination and brevity, sadness and fright quivering in his large lavender eyes._

"_What's my duty, sensei?" His voice shook, but he tried to sound noble, attempting to hide the wet spot in his pants. The man looked down at him, both literally and figuratively. _

"_Weaklings aren't samurai, Shishiwakamaru. Go home and change your pants. You aren't cut out for this yet. Grow some boldness and courage, be more outgoing. We'll try again next year."_

His dreams shattered like glass against concrete. But without them shattering, he wouldn't be as austere and strong-willed as he was now. His dreams died, he died, and he was still dying whenever the recollections stuck him (he died over and over again), but he was grateful he was dead. It was the best. It made him stronger. He died time and time again, but he always kept on living with determination and will-power.

But why could he not return? Why couldn't he explain this to someone, speak this theory aloud, even to himself? Because it was false? No.

Because he was scared.

But hadn't he always been? He was afraid he'd be hit when he wet himself. He was afraid he'd be beaten when the boys approached him. He was afraid he would die when he started his training. He was afraid he would be rejected forever, and then, if he was ever ready to be a samurai, he would die. He was ready now. And he was dead now, too.

Now he was afraid of being alone. When one overcomes one fear, another replaces it. When one overcomes no fears, more fears pile up, overwhelm one, intertwine and relate, in a circle of fright, until one succumbs to all their fears to-gether. And die.

_You can't hurt me. I'm already dead._

He stood up from the swing. It still swung lightly behind him as he made his way into the crowd of no to-morrow. Nothing could hurt him. Only his fear. But even that could do nothing. Because he was already dead, in his mind.

What a very mad world.

_**Hey, hey. Took me a while to write this. I'm not satisfied with the outcome. It was rushed. But I don't want to re-write it. I'm not fond of this, but I certainly hope you are! Hope you liked it, and don't forget to review! It would be greatly appreciated. Thanks! Much luv.**_


End file.
